


To Keep the Dark at Bay

by Johns_Farthings



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Chuffnell Regis, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Late-night walks, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:42:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22852681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johns_Farthings/pseuds/Johns_Farthings
Summary: 'It was during the brief separation between myself and Mr Wooster over his playing of the trombone that events began. Readers will be familiar with much of the story, so I will move straight to the pertinent details of what occurred in Chuffnell Regis on the night Mr Wooster’s cottage was set alight.'The fire at Chuffnell Regis turns out differently, and Jeeves starts to have bad dreams.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 19
Kudos: 202





	To Keep the Dark at Bay

It was during the brief separation between myself and Mr Wooster over his playing of the trombone that events began. Readers will be familiar with much of the story, so I will move straight to the pertinent details of what occurred in Chuffnell Regis on the night Mr Wooster’s cottage was set alight.

Though I was not present at the beginning, Mr Wooster gave me his account later. He had been struck by one of the policemen, and was rather dizzy after being brought to the cottage and put to bed. Therefore, when the cry of fire went up, he was some way down the steps before he remembered that Miss Stoker was still concealed in the bedroom. Realising that she had not followed, he hastened back to the room. Miss Stoker had just emerged from the cupboard where she had hidden, and Mr Wooster was in time to help her ahead of him to the stairs. The young lady was successful in reaching the safety of the floor below, but Mr Wooster, overcome by smoke, fell into a coughing fit, and when he recovered the staircase was no longer passable. Lacking any other option, he turned back to the bedroom and, throwing open the window, began to search for a way down.

It was at this point that, having accompanied Mr Stoker from the dock, I arrived at the cottage. We were in time to see the constables and Lord Chuffnell exit the house in a great hurry.

‘What in Hades is that?’ Mr Stoker said.

‘It appears to be a conflagration, sir,’ I said. We were still some distance away, but as I approached, I saw that Mr Wooster was not amongst those who had fled the house. I looked quickly around the garden. Unable to locate him, I went to the constables with a view to asking where Mr Wooster was, just as Miss Stoker reached us, coughing harshly. Both Mr Stoker and Lord Chuffnell uttered exclamations, Lord Chuffnell presenting an arm to help support her away from the fire.

‘Miss Stoker,’ I said, approaching her, ‘where is Mr Wooster?’

‘Bertie?’ Miss Stoker’s hair was singed, and she looked on the verge of tears. ‘He was behind me – just now, right behind me.’

We turned to look at the house. The fire was spreading rapidly, glowing orange through the windows and the front door.

‘Good Lord,’ Lord Chuffnell said, ‘he must be still-’

It was at that moment that I saw the bedroom window open, and Mr Wooster, coughing badly, lean out and call for help. The rush of the flames that lit the room behind him was something dreadful to behold, and I sprang to action. I fancy that, had a ladder not been readily available, I would have run into the house and tried to reach Mr Wooster to assist him, no matter the danger, but the ladder was clearly the most effective way of bringing aid. I wasted no time in seizing it and putting it to the wall. Lord Chuffnell ran to steady it as I climbed, and I was soon level with Mr Wooster, who leaned over the sill to reach me. He tried to say something, but was coughing so much that I could not understand him. The position at the window was an awkward one, but Mr Wooster is slender, so I was able to lift him over my left shoulder and descend the ladder using my right hand only. Mr Wooster was very still, and I was concerned that he had passed out from the smoke. He told me later that he was afraid that I would lose my balance if he moved, but I was greatly agitated by the time we reached the ground. I carried Mr Wooster far away from the house, afraid that the structure might give way, and set him against a tree at the end of the garden. Lord Chuffnell returned to Miss Stoker, no doubt to reassure himself of her wellbeing, but I hardly noticed.

‘Mr Wooster,’ I said, loosening his collar and checking him for burns. ‘Mr Wooster, can you hear me?’

He nodded, then doubled over with his hand over his mouth. I put my arm across his chest to brace him, greatly concerned that he seemed unable to speak. It was at this point that the fire brigade arrived and set about trying to put out the fire. As I lifted my head to watch them, I was presented with a view of the window where Mr Wooster had been stranded only a few moments before, entirely consumed by the flames.

* * *

Once the fire brigade had the worst of the blaze under control, a doctor was sent for and both Miss Stoker and Mr Wooster examined for injury. They were declared not in any danger, and Mr Wooster recovered his powers of speech after a little time and a glass of water, which put my mind more at ease. The man Brinkley, still inebriated, was taken away by the constables, and Lord Chuffnell insisted we go to the hall to spend the remainder of the night. I was concerned that he would be resentful of the fact Miss Stoker had been at Mr Wooster’s house, but his relief at finding her unharmed, and the inevitable understanding of why Mr Wooster had been attempting to sleep in the potting shed, meant that there was no ill-feeling.

Once at the house, Mr Wooster was assigned a room on the east side of the building, and I assisted him up the stairs. There was never any question of my attending to Lord Chuffnell, though I was still in his employ. At that time, nothing could have kept me from making certain that Mr Wooster was well, and if Lord Chuffnell had requested my presence, I would have refused it. Thankfully, the events of the night had distracted him, and I was not required to go to such lengths.

Having borrowed some pyjamas, I first insisted on giving Mr Wooster a cool bath, not only to wash away all traces of the fire, but to soothe his hands and face which, though not burned, were sore from the heat. Then, I helped him into the night things and put him quickly to bed.

‘Thank you, Jeeves,’ he said. His voice was still hoarse, and he looked exhausted. The borrowed pyjamas were too big for him, and a murky yellow that made him look dreadfully pale. ‘If you hadn’t brought that ladder when you did, goodness knows what would have happened.’

‘Please do not say that,’ I said, for the words made me think of the window being consumed by flames, and turned my skin cold. ‘I only did what anyone would have done.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I can think of a fair number of people who would have stood back to watch me burn cheerily to a crisp, Pop Stoker included.’

I started to tell him that he must not to say such things, but before I could finish Mr Wooster began to cough again, and by the time he recovered, he was fatigued, and soon fell asleep.

I remained in the room. The doctor had advised that someone should stay close to Mr Wooster until the morning, in case his coughing became worse, but I would have stayed even without such advice. I did not feel able to leave him.

I did not sleep that night.

* * *

By morning, Mr Wooster was recovering – though he was husky in his speech, the coughing did not develop into anything worrisome. After two days, we returned to London. I handed my notice in to Lord Chuffnell, who thankfully did not make me stay on to fulfil it, so I was able to accompany Mr Wooster. His expression when I stated my wish to re-enter his employ made me feel ashamed for having left him in the first place, and over something so trivial. Still, he seemed to harbour no resentment – Mr Wooster is a gentleman of an extraordinarily good and forgiving nature – and upon or arrival at the flat, I fell into my usual routine of unpacking and tidying. By nightfall Mr Wooster seemed to have, if not forgotten, at least put the events of Chuffnell Regis completely out of his mind. I prepared him for bed in the usual manner before returning to my own part of the flat and, after reading for a short time, proceeding to my own bed.

That night, I dreamed of Chuffnell Regis. I approached the cottage the same manner I had two days ago, walking alongside Mr Stoker, and I saw Mr Wooster open the bedroom window and call for help. I looked frantically around the garden, but there was no ladder to be seen. Unable to reach the window, I turned instead and tried to enter the house through the front door, only to find that it was locked, and no amount of pulling or kicking would induce it to open. I called for help, but no-one came – Lord Chuffnell, Mr Stoker and Miss Stoker had all vanished. There was only myself and Mr Wooster, and I could not reach him. Mr Wooster called for help again, but the sound grew more and more feeble, whilst I stood helplessly by the burning house, until his cries ceased altogether.

I woke with a start, my breathing constricted and my night things damp with perspiration. It was several moments before I was able to rouse myself sufficiently to understand that I was at the flat in London, and that Mr Wooster had not perished in Chuffnell Regis. It was longer before I was no longer shaking. 

I sat for some time in the dark. Though my heart began to slow, my thoughts raced. What I had dreamed was the most awful eventuality I could imagine, and I was greatly disturbed that it may be some kind of premonition about Mr Wooster’s safety.

I debated extensively – I pride myself on being a rational man, and rarely give myself over to superstition – but at last I decided that I would not be able to sleep until I assured myself that there was nothing amiss in the flat. It would be more irrational to remain awake all night when it was a simple matter to check. I rose, put on my robe and slippers, and went into the corridor. The flat seemed order. I examined the kitchen to ensure I had not left the stove on, then crossed the living room and approached Mr Wooster’s bedroom door.

Here, I hesitated. I had no place going into his room before it was time to wake him, but I could not rid myself of the thought that he might be in some kind of danger, and that my nightmare had been a terrible warning. In addition, Mr Wooster is a heavy sleeper, and I knew he would not wake. I would not be caught.

I opened the door a little. The room was in darkness, but I could hear the sound of Mr Wooster breathing – evenly, and without distress. He was in no danger. My dream had been disturbing, but nothing more than that.

Feeling foolish, I closed the door and returned swiftly to my room. I reasoned that it was inevitable I should suffer some mental disturbance after such a nightmare, and after the stressful events of Chuffnell Regis. Mr Wooster has encountered many perilous situations during my time with him – he has been threatened with shotguns and physical violence, involved in schemes that require him to climb trees or cross the law, and nearly drowned – but the burning cottage had no doubt been the most hazardous event of his life so far. It was natural that I should worry about him. I also felt some responsibility for what had happened, as I had been the one who had allowed Brinkley to take my place, though I had known from first looking at him that he would not be suitable. It would have been my fault if Mr Wooster had been seriously injured, or worse.

Sleep was impossible after such a thought, so I dressed and did a number of small, quiet jobs around the flat until it was time to wake Mr Wooster with a cup of tea. He was his usual cheerful self, and played the piano after breakfast – one his popular songs, but tuneful and familiar, which helped calm my nerves. By evening, I had almost put the nightmare from my mind. The routine of the day was relaxing, and Mr Wooster clearly in no danger. I assumed that the nightmare had been nothing more than an upsetting, but isolated, incident.

I was wrong. From that night, I had the dream with frequency, and with many variations. Sometimes, as in the first occurrence, I could not find the ladder, or it slipped through my grasp and broke on the grass. Sometimes, I would seize it and put it to the window, only to find that my hands would not grip it, or my feet went through the rungs, and I could not reach Mr Wooster whilst he shouted for help above me. Other times, I would be lost inside the cottage, searching in the smoke. No matter what I did, I could never reach him before it was too late. Then, I would wake with a start, into the terrible silence of the night, and would get no peace until I rose and went to Mr Wooster’s room to make certain he was safe. Even after doing so, I often found it impossible to return to sleep.

After more than a week of these disturbed nights, it became clear that the lack of rest was having a negative effect on my ability to operate my daily duties. I suffered periods of exhaustion in the afternoons, and insomnia in the evenings. I burned my fingers on the kettle, and upset the salt and sugar. I knocked items off shelves when I dusted. My thoughts were often so absent that Mr Wooster might call for me two or three times before I realised that I was needed.

The poor state of things was demonstrated rather plainly when, carrying drinks for Mr Wooster and some of his friends from the Drones who were gathered in the living room, I stumbled on the carpet and dropped the tray, glasses included, with an almighty crash. The mess was quickly cleaned, and Mr Wooster is not the kind of man, as some are in his position, to be angry over such an accident, but I was greatly disturbed. No doubt my thinking, and my emotions, were somewhat clouded by lack of sleep.

‘Jeeves,’ Mr Wooster said, once his friends had left. ‘Are you quite alright?’

‘I am perfectly well, sir.’

‘Only, it’s not like you to take a spill like that. Not that it bothers me, Jeeves – happens to the best of us – but you have been looking a little worn around the edges lately. If something is bothering you, you have only to say the word, and-’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, if you are under the weather, Jeeves, you needn’t feel obliged to come to Brinkley with me.’

I had forgotten all about the trip to Brinkley Court, which had been planned for some time – further evidence that I was not myself.

‘I would rather you stayed here and rested,’ Mr Wooster continued, ‘and you might join me when you are feeling better.’

‘No!’ I was unguarded, and the alarm showed in my voice, for Mr Wooster visibly started. I could not help it – the thought of being away from him, unknowing of whether he was in danger, was quite dreadful. ‘I mean to say, I am not ill, sir. I shall accompany you.’

‘Well,’ Mr Wooster said, still looking at me oddly, ‘if you’re certain.’ He smiled. ‘Some fresh country air might do us both good, what?’

‘Indeed, sir,’ I said, though I could not help but think of what had happened the last time Mr Wooster decided to spend time in the countryside. My heart, already beating rapidly, sank into my stomach.

* * *

Perhaps because he still felt uneasy about the sudden change that had come about me, Mr Wooster opted to travel to Brinkley by rail rather than taking the car. I like train journeys with Mr Wooster – though I do not mind driving, it is nearly impossible to hear each other, and on trains I may read whilst Mr Wooster peruses the newspaper. We often engage in conversation, which I enjoy very much. This time, though, the conversation was muted. Mr Wooster smoked and looked out of the window, though I caught him glancing over at me several times. I had taken great care, since the incident with the dropped tray, to ensure that my feelings remained hidden, but Mr Wooster can be rather perceptive when he wishes, and I was not sure that I had fooled him. To avoid him making further comment, I kept my eyes on the book I had brought with me, though I did not take any of it in, merely turning the pages at what I thought were the appropriate points.

‘I say,’ Mr Wooster said, once we had left London. ‘What are you reading? It looks dashed brainy.’

I am ashamed to say that I made something up. In truth, I had not made any progress with the book in since I had started it a week ago.

Mr Wooster remained quiet after that. I listened to the click of the pistons and, after an hour, I began to feel sleepy. We had the compartment to ourselves, and the motion of the train was rather soothing. With Mr Wooster in close proximity, and therefore not in any probable danger, I soon began to feel more relaxed than I had in days.

It was inevitable, perhaps, that I should fall asleep. I had not had a full night’s rest in over a week, and as the hour approached the afternoon, my head began to nod over the book. I had the brief thought that perhaps it was not wise to fall asleep, but the urge was too strong, and the last I remember is the train guard calling out the name of a station before I drifted off.

I dreamed, of course. This time was worse than the others for, rather than being in the cottage at Chuffnell Regis, I dreamed of the flat in London. Roused from sleep by a sound, I put on my robe as I had many times before and went to the corridor to investigate. There, I found the orange glow of a fire, which crackled and spat, consuming the floor and walls around me. The heat was scorching.

‘Mr Wooster!’ I called, but black smoke choked me, and I could not make the sound carry. Mr Wooster’s bedroom door was closed, and amongst the worst of the flames. ‘Mr Wooster!’

None of my shouts produced a response, so I pulled my robe up around my head to stave off the heat and hurried over the burning carpet towards his room. The handle was hot, but the door opened. The place was full of bitter smog, but I knew my way to the bed without needing to see it. I reached for Mr Wooster.

He was cold – startlingly so, in the heat of the room. I shook him by the shoulder, then seized his hand, calling his name, but he did not stir and I knew, without a doubt, that he would not wake.

Something seized my arm, and I started to consciousness with a gasp.

‘Jeeves!’ Mr Wooster was holding tight to my arm, his face close to my own. ‘Jeeves, for goodness sake, wake up!’

‘Sir?’ I sat forward, almost falling, for I had forgotten where I was. The book slid from my lap to the floor with a thud.

‘Jeeves!’ Mr Wooster was out of his seat, bent over me in the train compartment. ‘You were making the most awful noises, I-’

The compartment door opened, and the guard put his head through. ‘Everything alright in here? We had report of a disturbance.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Mr Wooster waved a hand. ‘We’re alright, he’s just…that is, I’m not too fond of spiders, and spotted a rather big one up by the luggage. Gave me quite a turn. Very sorry. It shan’t happen again.’

The guard gave us a stony look, but he left, and closed the door behind him.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ I said, attempting to straighten my clothing, which had become rumpled. ‘I shall be better directly.’

‘Dash it, Jeeves, what was that? You were tossing and turning like the dickens, and you kept trying to say something.’

‘I apologise, sir, if I have disturbed you, I-’

‘I don’t want you to apologise! I want you to tell me what’s been eating you these past few days. Don’t think I haven’t noticed – you look positively ill.’

‘Sir-’

‘Please, Jeeves.’ Mr Wooster sat down on the seat next to me. His hand was still on my arm – he seemed to have forgotten it was there. ‘You’ve helped me out of a sticky sitch more times than I can count. What on earth is bothering you?’

I wavered. Unlike Mr Wooster, I do not have an open nature. Even if my job permitted it, I am not comfortable with expressing emotion. But Mr Wooster looked at me so sincerely, and I was still suffering the effects of the awful dream, and several nights disturbed sleep.

I told him. I told him of how scared I had been for his life when I saw him at the window of the cottage in Chuffnell Regis, and the dreams I had endured repeatedly since. 

‘But, Jeeves.’ Mr Wooster’s voice was quiet, rather bewildered. He had not moved his hand from my arm, and I found I did not want him to. ‘I am quite safe. What happened at Chuffnell Regis was dashed awful, but it all came out alright in the end, didn’t it?’

My cheeks coloured. Clearly, Mr Wooster had suffered no ill-effects of what had happened at the cottage, and he had been the one in danger. It made me ashamed, that I was more distressed by the incident than he.

‘Besides,’ Mr Wooster added, squeezing my arm, ‘if something did happen to me, anyone who knows you would employ you in a heartbeat. My friends all think the world of you. You’d not want for a thing. In fact, you might find yourself better off elsewhere.’

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I understood that Mr Wooster was trying to help, but his words were far from comforting. I took a deep breath, straightened, and pulled my arm from him.

‘I am sorry, sir. I shall be better directly.’

‘But Jeeves-’

‘I said, I shall be better directly.’

And, though Mr Wooster tried several times to engage me in conversation, I gave only monosyllabic answers, or slight movements of the head, for the rest of the journey.

* * *

Though Mr Wooster’s reaction to what I had told him had been unsatisfactory, if well-meaning, I had hoped that speaking to him might ease my mind a little. Sadly, this was not the case – when night came at Brinkley Court, and I had seen Mr Wooster to bed and taken supper in the kitchen with the rest of the staff, my mind was no more composed than it had been the past few days. There hardly seemed much point in getting into my nightclothes, for I knew I would be awake long before dawn, but I thought I should at least try to sleep.

As I laid in the bed, trying to calm my thoughts, I became aware of a noise outside my door. I frowned, wondering who it might be, until it came again, and I recognised Mr Wooster’s tread. I sat up and switched on the lamp on the bedside table.

‘Mr Wooster?’

There was a long silence, and then a creak, and Mr Wooster put his head into the room. ‘Did I wake you, Jeeves?’

‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘Do you require assistance?’

‘No, Jeeves. That is…no, don’t get up.’ Mr Wooster came into the room, and pushed the door shut behind him. ‘I wanted, well…to see if you were alright.’

I pressed my lips together. ‘I am quite well, sir.’

‘Only…Jeeves, I have been thinking.’

In other circumstances, I might have ‘indeed, sir’ed at him, but I was too startled to do so.

‘I’ve rather been contemplating that if the posish had been the other way around, regarding the burning of Chuffy’s cottage – that is, if you had been inside, instead of me – I would probably be feeling the same way. That is…unsettled.’

‘But, sir,’ I said. Perhaps it was cruel, but I wanted to know exactly what Mr Wooster was thinking. I was well aware that his presence in my room indicated something out of the ordinary. ‘If something were to happen to me, there are any number of competent valets who could fill my place.’

Mr Wooster looked like had had been slapped in the face, and I was instantly remorseful.

‘Forgive me, sir. I only…’

‘No, Jeeves.’ Mr Wooster took a step back. ‘I understand. What I said on the train – I was only trying to make you feel better. I’m sorry about it, though. I was being a fathead.’

I sighed. ‘Sir…’

‘Listen, Jeeves. May I come in?’

I did not point out that he was already in the room, but gestured in agreement. Mr Wooster pulled up the single wooden chair and sat. He was wearing his blue robe, but had clearly put it on hastily. One of the shoulders had slipped on his thin frame, and showed the pyjamas underneath.

‘Jeeves,’ he said, ‘I really am quite alright. Yes, the brush at Chuffnell Regis wasn’t one I’d care to repeat, but it all came out in the end. Even if you hadn’t arrived on the scene when you did, I’m sure Chuffy would have raced to the rescue, or one of those policemen. They simply didn’t need to, thanks to you.’

‘Sir,’ I said, ‘if it had not been for me, the fire would never have begun. You employed Brinkley because I refused to listen to your trombone.’

‘I refused to give the thing up, Jeeves. It was as much my fault as yours. And Brinkley came from the agency. Nothing to do with you.’

‘But I knew that he would not be suitable. From the moment I showed him his duties, I knew his nature – I even suspected his tendency to drink. I should have warned you, sir.’

‘Nonsense. You weren’t to know.’

‘Sir, if you had been hurt, or worse, killed, I would never have forgiven myself.’

‘Jeeves…’

‘Never, sir.’

I had been staring at my hands where they were folded on my lap, but now I looked up. Mr Wooster had moved to the very edge of the chair, so that his feet, which were bare, almost touched mine.

‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I wish you wouldn’t feel like that, when it was you who rather saved the day. Jeeves,’ he added, holding up a hand before I could speak, ‘the way you were in that train earlier gave me a dreadful a start. I…that’s why I came here. I was worried about you. I wanted to make sure you were alright.’

I remained silent. I was not sure what to say, and the air in the room seemed thick, like fog. 

‘Anyway, here I am rambling on, and no doubt you’re desperate to get to bed.’

He did not leave. I did not ask him to stay, but neither did I ask him to go. We sat for some time in the dim light, until at last Mr Wooster reached out and touched my hand. His fingertips were soft.

‘I do dream about it sometimes. Not every night, but it’s dashed unpleasant when I do. Makes my heart go like the dickens. So...you aren't alone, you know.’

I nodded. Mr Wooster tightened his grip on my hand.

‘Jeeves, I…I’m not really sure what happens now.’

Carefully, I moved over on the bed, and laid down, leaving a gap. He might have taken the gesture to mean that I wanted him to go, but he did not. He got up and took the space on the mattress, laying on his side and pressing his back to my chest. I put an arm over him, and reached for his hand, my fingers between his. Mr Wooster shuffled towards me with a sigh.

‘This alright, Jeeves? I’m not too bony for you?’

I shook my head, and we lay like that for some time. I did not dare speak, for fear of breaking the spell – I thought that Mr Wooster would soon excuse himself, but he did not seem inclined to move. I did not ask him to, though it might have been prudent. I could not bear the thought of him leaving.

‘Shall I put the light out?’ he said at last. His shoulders were relaxed against my chest, his voice rough and sleepy. ‘Unless you’d like it on?’

‘No. I do not mind.’

He reached out the hand that was not holding mine, and turned the light off. There was a moment of total darkness before my eyes adjusted, but Mr Wooster shifted against me, and I was reminded that he was here, and safe, in my arms.

* * *

That night, when the dream began, I became aware of Mr Wooster beside me. Half-asleep, I felt him shift. ‘S’alright,’ he murmured, ‘I’m here.’ I did not wake, exactly, but the nightmare softened, until I was only dreaming of my own bed in the flat in London, and Mr Wooster singing. I think he started to hum at one point, but I cannot be certain if it was my imagination.

When I woke, it was a little after dawn – though my job necessitates it, I am a naturally early riser – and I felt more rested than I had in a long time. Though tired, I had slept most of the night. Mr Wooster was still asleep, though he had turned in the night and was facing me, his knees against mine. His cheeks were flushed, for the bed was not designed for two, and uncomfortably warm. 

Gently, I shook him awake. He was slow to rouse, but he did not startle in disgust upon seeing me, which was encouraging.

‘Time’s it?’ he mumbled, turning his head into the pillow.

‘Early, sir. You must return to your room.’

He groaned, rubbing a hand over his eyes. I have seen him half-asleep many times when bringing his morning cup of tea, but there was something about him being in my room, and so at-ease, that made it impossible to look away.

‘Please, sir.’ I did not want him to leave, but I knew he must. The household would soon be awake, and it would invite difficult questions if he were seen. ‘You must go now, whilst it is safe.’

Slowly, he got to his feet. I pushed back the covers and stood next to him, straightening his robe. ‘I will come and wake you at your usual time.’

He left. I missed him the moment he was gone, but busied myself dressing and setting the room to rights, though not much was out of place. Nothing had happened, beyond the sharing of the bed. I was not even sure what Mr Wooster’s propensities were, though I had long harboured a suspicion that he may be drawn to the male form as much, if not more so, than the female. And, though he had fondness for some of the women he had been engaged to, he had never appeared to truly be in love with them.

I dismissed the idea, for, even in the privacy of my own thoughts, it seemed I was making an assumption that Mr Wooster might feel something for me, as I had for him for some time. No doubt he had simply been alarmed by my starting awake on the train and, being naturally kind, wanted to make sure I was well.

Still, I kept returning to the press of his hand against mine, and the soft hum of his voice in the night.

When I went to wake him at his usual time, I found that he had already risen, and was looking out of the window at the gardens.

‘You should have rung,’ I said.

He waved a hand. ‘No need. I haven’t been awake long.’

I set the tray down on the windowsill next to him. He picked up his tea and took a sip. ‘Did you sleep better, old thing?’

‘Very well.’ I swallowed. ‘Thank you, sir.’

He smiled. ‘I slept rather well myself, you know.’

He was waiting for something, but I was not sure what to say. I do not usually act upon impulse – I prefer to wait until I have all the facts, and build a strategy around them. Though often prudent, it is not always suitable for affairs of the heart. I hesitated, and the moment passed.

‘Well.’ Mr Wooster drained his tea. ‘I shall take a stroll, I think.’

I helped Mr Wooster dress, focusing more than usual on the little attentions in his suit - the cuffs and collar, the straightening of the tie, the fastening of buttons. Mr Wooster made conversation, but I sensed his mind, like mine, was elsewhere.

The day was relatively uneventful. Mr Wooster spent some time with his Aunt and walked to town in the afternoon, so I saw very little of him until dinner. This left me plenty of time to think on what had occurred the night before. I had harboured feelings for Mr Wooster that went beyond friendship long before the dreams of Chuffnell Regis had emphasised the horror of losing him, but Mr Wooster may well not feel the same way. He had said nothing in the morning, and perhaps regretted his actions of the previous night. Even if he did not, he may not think it wise to mention it again. This was understandable, though it pained me.

After dinner, Mr Wooster entertained the residents of Brinkley Court with a song at the piano. Mr Travers does not care for popular tunes, and Mr Wooster selected a slow, classical piece. Though he has a good ear for music, he is usually better suited to a faster tempo, but he played very well. I will admit that I lingered in the room, taking extra time about my duties, in order to listen to him. I even closed my eyes for a moment, and imagined that it was only myself and Mr Wooster at the flat. It brought a deep calm over me, though I knew the night would soon come.

Still, I had slept better yesterday. I told myself that it would be easier this time, even if I did not truly believe it. It was clear that I had only had more rest because I was in Mr Wooster’s company, and able to reassure myself that he was safe.

When at last I stepped out of the drawing room, I almost ran into one of the maids, who was quite clearly listening outside the room. She stumbled backwards, turning red.

‘Oh Mr Jeeves, I was just…’ She looked around hopelessly. ‘That is…I’m sorry Mr Jeeves. I was passing, and it’s such a lovely song.’

I could not bring myself to chastise her. ‘Mr Wooster is very skilled at the piano.’

She brightened. ‘I always look forward to his visits. It must be something, to be able to listen to him play every day.’

I blinked. I almost told her that it was more than something – that it was wonderful – but I gathered myself in time, and reminded her that we both had duties to attend to. I watched her go down the corridor before heading in the opposite direction, but my thoughts were racing again.

I had known for a long time that I held romantic inclinations to Mr Wooster, but it was not until that moment that I realised I was deeply in love with him. 

* * *

After he had finished with the piano, Mr Wooster called me, as he wished to retire early. He undressed in silence, not meeting my eye. As he did not mention the previous night, and I was still reeling from my earlier revelation and I could not think of a way to approach the subject myself, I left with it remaining unspoken between us. 

My room seemed stark and empty. It was hardly my place to hope that Mr Wooster would join me again, but I could not help but do so. I left the light on for some time after I had undressed and got into bed, so that he should not pass and think I was asleep. I thought also that the light might bring me comfort if he did not, but it made no difference. It was not the dark that I was afraid of.

It soon became clear that any chance of rest was hopeless. My hands smelled of Mr Wooster’s clothes, and I fancied the shape of him still between the sheets, though I had made the bed that morning. The hour passed midnight, and I gave any hope of sleep up and rose. I put on my shoes, slipped my jacket over my pyjamas, and went to the kitchen door. It was locked, but I knew where Seppings kept the spare key, and I stepped into the garden without difficultly.

The night was warm, and the air heavy with the scent of vegetation. Brinkley Court has pleasant gardens, though they are rather too empty for my liking, given over to wide paths rather than flower beds or trees. I prefer French gardens which, in rural areas, are rather more wild.

I walked for some time without settling any of my thoughts. In truth, I had not held out much hope that a stroll would calm them. At last, I stopped by the hedge that ran around the grass and leaned against it, letting myself sink a little into the branches. I looked up. It was a clear night, with a half-moon that lit the sky around it silver. The stars were bright and, upon beginning to count them, I was able to put aside my thoughts for a moment, and simply exist beneath them, like a character in a play governed by a power not his own.

‘Jeeves?’

I came out of my reverie with a start to find Mr Wooster standing on the grass a few feet away.

‘Sir,’ I said, stumbling out of the hedge, embarrassed that he had seen me. ‘Is something amiss?’

‘No, no. Only, I fancied a walk, and I rather…I thought I might find you here.’

I blinked. Had he come to my room as he had last night, and found it empty?

‘Do you mind? I can tootle on, if you’d rather be alone.’

‘Not at all, sir.’

I straightened my jacket, all too aware that it was covered in pieces of the hedge, and that my pyjamas showed plainly underneath it. I approached Mr Wooster and kept pace with him as he began to walk. We strolled around the gardens for a time before Mr Wooster paused, looking up at the sky. He took a cigarette out of his dressing-gown pocket and lit it. His hands, usually so deft, seemed rather unsteady. 

‘I suppose you can tell me something about them, Jeeves.’

‘Sir?’

He gestured with the cigarette. ‘The stars. Which one belongs to Orion and which ones aren’t stars at all.’

‘I am not well-acquainted with astronomy, sir.’ It was not strictly true – I had a rough knowledge, but no more than a boy’s understanding. ‘You would be best to ask someone who makes a hobby of it.’

‘Oh.’ Mr Wooster sighed. ‘I’ve been thinking, Jeeves,’ he said, as if we were sat in the flat in London, rather than standing in the dark, ‘about what happened here at Brinkley Court. With the bicycle.’

I winced. Although the events of that evening had ended satisfactorily for all parties, I had wished more than once afterwards that I had not put Mr Wooster through such an arduous task.

Mr Wooster began to walk again. The end of his cigarette glowed in the darkness, and gravel crunched beneath our feet. ‘Or rather, what happened beforehand.’

‘Sir?’

‘You told me to ring the fire-bell – so that each party would rush to the aid of the one they cared most for. Gussie to Madeline, Tuppy to Angela. I know now that you were operating a more advanced plan than that, but I’ve been thinking about it since we arrived here, after what happened at Chuffy’s place. I wanted you to know, Jeeves, that if a fire broke out here, at Brinkley Court, which I’m sure it wouldn’t, but if it did, and it was the real thing - well, you would be the one. That I ran to the aid of, I mean.’

I was so startled by Mr Wooster’s words that I almost walked into a potted plant. I swerved to avoid disaster at the last moment, but was distracted from saying anything. Mr Wooster seemed to take my silence for reproach.

‘Not that I don’t think you’re able to get yourself out of a scrape, Jeeves.’ He fumbled with the cigarette and almost dropped it, then caught it on his bottom lip. ‘I can think of few people more capable. But even so, I’d want to make sure you were alright. I’d be quite devastated if anything happened to you. And not because I’d be lost without you – though I would be, of course. Quite simply, I’d miss you like the dickens.’

We were approaching the house. Mr Wooster threw down the cigarette and ground it under his slipper. The crunch of gravel was startlingly loud in the quiet garden.

‘And I don’t like to see you looking so worn and tired Jeeves, over me of all things. I care about you awfully. More than most of my friends, really. Or all of them.’ He let out a high-pitched laugh. ‘The night’s terribly warm, isn’t it?

‘I…’

‘I suppose it is the summer. One ought to expect it. Mind, it was warm last night, and I slept very well then.’ He turned and looked at me. ‘Do you find that strange?’

I swallowed. ‘Perhaps, sir, it has something to do with evolution. It is a human instinct, to keep the darkness at bay by forming…communities.’

Mr Wooster's jaw tightened, and I knew at once that I had said the wrong thing. I tried quickly to find a suitable response, but we had already reached the kitchen door.

‘Well,’ Mr Wooster said briskly, not giving me time to speak, ‘good night, Jeeves.’

I tried to say something, but it was too late – Mr Wooster turned and strode inside, leaving me standing on the gravel with my heart pounding. I waited for some time by the open door, listening to the rustle of leaves and the faint screech of an owl towards the south end of the house, but Mr Wooster did not come back.

In the end, I had no choice but to go inside. I stepped into the kitchen, locked the door and walked slowly to my room. I did not remove my jacket, or get into bed. I waited, wondering if Mr Wooster would come to my room again.

He did not. The hours crept on. I paced, unable to settle. But, when dawn was less than an hour away, I realised that he would not come. He had told me of his feelings, and, like a fool, I had retreated into the safety of replying in my cold, unfeeling manner. He was not the sort of man to press unwelcome attention.

I went to the door. It was a sudden decision, in many ways – perhaps the most impulsive thing I have done in my life – but I knew that this time I must not hesitate, though my position, not to mention my freedom, would certainly be jeopardized if I had misunderstood anything that had passed between us. But I had nearly lost Mr Wooster once. I would have risked anything not to have it happen again.

I hastened to his room with a great sense of urgency, as great as if I had had another of my dreams. But I was not dreaming. I was wide awake.

I am not sure what I expected. For the most part, I thought Mr Wooster may have fallen asleep, the hour was so late. Yet, I was not surprised when, upon knocking softly on the door, I heard him sit up on the other side.

‘Hello?’

I began to ask permission to enter, then decided against it. I turned the handle and went in. The room was in darkness.

‘Jeeves?’

‘Yes.’

I shut the door behind me and approached the bed. The closer I got, the more afraid I was that I had made a mistake, that Mr Wooster would ask what on earth I was doing, coming to rouse him at such an hour, but he remained silent. When I was close enough to touch the bed, I sat. There was plenty of space – Mr Wooster’s bed was more suited for two than my own – but I did not lie down.

‘I fear I have told you an untruth, sir.’

‘What?’

‘I do not think last night was a simple product of evolution.’ My mouth was dry. ‘There has been a darkness in my thoughts of late that you keep at bay. The events of Chuffnell Regis had a profound effect on me because…I care very deeply for you. I have done for some time.’

Though I have read plenty of verse, I am not a poet myself – I am not ashamed to admit that my words were clumsy. I might well have received a cold reply, which was all that I deserved. Instead, there was a rustle, and mattress dipped as Mr Wooster moved backwards, making space for me to lie down. I did, heedless of the fact that I was still wearing my jacket, which was no doubt unclean from my time in the garden. Mr Wooster put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it, then shifted so that his back pressed into my stomach and I could once again feel him breathing against me.

We lay for some time, but it was soon clear that sleep would not come readily to either of us. I have always felt very comfortable around Mr Wooster, and though most find me rather emotionally stiff, I am usually relaxed in his company. However, our situation was a strange one, and there was much to think through.

‘Sir…’

‘Bertram. I rather think we’re past the ‘sir’, don’t you?’ He sighed, and I felt his ribs move as his lungs expanded. ‘I’m glad you came.’

I nodded. We lay for some time in the darkness. The wind blew outside the window - the morning would be a cold one, despite the time of year. 

‘Jeeves,’ Mr Wooster said at last, ‘do you think-’

It was at that moment that feet passed outside the door. Mr Wooster fell silent, and we held our breath. The steps passed, of course – there was no reason for anyone to come into the room, and certainly not without knocking – but it was enough.

‘We cannot do this here.’ I sat up, putting my back against the headboard and pulling my legs into my chest. ‘There are too many people – it is too dangerous.’

I thought that he would argue with me, but Mr Wooster is nothing like the fool that others make him out to be, and he, too, sat up. ‘Then we’ll leave.’

‘Leave?’

‘Go back to London, I mean.’

‘Your visit – Mrs Travers…’

‘Dash it, I don’t care.’ The light coming under the door was faint, but it lit his eyes. He seemed vaguely feverish, and I resisted the urge to put a hand on his forehead. ‘And Aunt Dahlia won’t mind. She doesn’t want me to pinch anything, so I’m really only taking up space she could be using for better purposes. Let’s go now.’

‘It is the middle of the night. There are no trains.’

‘In the morning, then. Please.’

Slowly, I nodded. It was not only that he had asked me – though there were any number of things I would have done for Mr Wooster when he said ‘please’ in that manner – but I did want to go. There was much to discuss, and we required privacy to do so. 

‘Thank you.’ He reached for my hand and pressed it. ‘I wish you didn’t have to go.’

‘I know, sir.’ 

‘Bertram.’

‘Bertram,’ I said. The word was soft on my tongue, though unfamiliar.

‘Hurry now.’

I left the bed, set my clothing as much to rights as I could. The summer air had cooled, but my heart was light. I went to the door, listened at it for a moment, then hurried towards my own room. Thankfully, I met no-one. I might have explained my clothing, but, for once, I was finding my expression difficult to conceal.

* * *

The return journey to London was a great improvement on the one away from it. Our sudden departure prompted a sharp remark from Mrs Travers about impulsive nephews with little brain, but raised no eyebrows. We had the compartment to ourselves for some of the way and Mr Wooster, perusing one of his detective novels, read aloud some passages that he thought particularly engaging, or amusing. The novel was not the kind I would usually purchase, but I warmed to it when it was read by him. It has often been the case that I have found myself altering my opinion on something because of Mr Wooster. As I watched his lips move, his hair lit golden by a ray of sun coming through the window, it was not difficult to see why.

Upon our arrival at the flat there was the usual business of unpacking and bathing and changing, and it wasn’t until I was preparing dinner that we had a moment to breathe. Mr Wooster came into the kitchen, poured himself a drink, and sat at the table.

‘Leave the dinner,’ he said, ‘come sit down, won’t you?’

I did. We talked for a very long time. There were explanations, confessions, even negotiations. I had my position to consider, and Mr Wooster his reputation. Nothing could be entered into lightly, and it was not. But neither was it entered regretfully – considering it had happened so suddenly, it felt inevitable, in the way that rain must come at the end of a spell of hot weather to cool the air.

I will not attempt anything more poetic than that.

That night, I joined Mr Wooster in his bed, which was better designed for two than my own. I returned the night after that, and the one after, until it became routine. The only difficulty came in the mornings, when I would rise early. Most of the time I could do so without rousing Mr Wooster, who is not a light sleeper, but, on occasion, I would wake him.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said one morning when I had done so. His hair was tangled and the pillow had left a crease on his cheek. ‘I rather like being woken by you.’

I will not say that my dreams stopped, for that would be a lie. I had the nightmare quite regularly, and sometimes with great intensity, but I found it easier to bear with Mr Wooster next to me, turning on the light and fetching a glass of water, or simply putting his hand on my shoulder to reassure me that he was there, and safe. He had bad dreams too, on occasion, and I was able to return the gesture. He was certain to fall asleep if I pulled him close to me so that his head rested in the hollow of my shoulder, and put my arm around his back.

Apart from sharing a bedroom, our domestic routine varied very little, and to the outside world things were as they always had been. I had my duties, though after the change in our relationship Mr Wooster made attempts to take a share of them. Mr Wooster visited his friends and relatives, and required my help more than once to get him out of a difficult situation. These visits meant that we could not share a bad, but they were only short absences, and bearable. As summer turned to autumn, and the nights grew longer and colder, Mr Wooster seemed inclined to spend more time at the flat. In the long winter evenings it was a wonderful thing to have him close, leafing through his music sheets whilst I read by the fire. He taught me some of his songs on the piano, though we were able to improvise pieces as well. Somehow, I always knew where he wanted the music to go.

At last, the frequency of that terrible dream began to diminish. Time is known as a great healer with good reason. And, though I would never wish Mr Wooster in any form of danger, I could not help but be a little grateful – for without the fire at Chuffnell Regis, we might never have dared to seek each other out in the dark.


End file.
